


At the Gates

by bookworm1138



Series: The Frozen North [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Adventure, Fantasy, Gen, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-20 16:38:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18528955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm1138/pseuds/bookworm1138
Summary: The Lich King has begun his war upon the world of the living. A temporary truce has been called by the Horde and the Alliance in order to combat the dead. But certain figures seek to use the conflict to broker their own nefarious ends. Can the heroes of the Horde and the Alliance survive what is to come, or will they serve the Lich King in death?





	At the Gates

**Author's Note:**

> This is the narrative of Wrath of the Lich King as seen through the eyes of some characters of myself and my brother. I start here since this was my beginning with World of Warcraft. Since the people who have been controlling the narrative of World of Warcraft lately are those whose views I don't agree with, there will be lore-based events and situations in this (and other stories) which reflect my view of the lore.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

Early morning, somewhere over the Great Sea. Three large zeppelins were on their way through the skies, heading north. Up here, the sound of their great propellers swatting the air was the only thing heard for miles, broken periodically by shrill calls from the Goblin crews of each airship. Crimson banners flapped defiantly in the cold, northern wind, bearing the emblem of the Horde. The affront upon Orgrimmar would not be tolerated and now the armies of the Horde were turned north to face the undead Scourge.

Within the zeppelins huddled the soldiers of the Horde. Savage green-skinned Orcs, slender blue-skinned Trolls, massive bovine Tauren, the fair and elegant Blood Elves, the latest addition to the Horde, and the Forsaken, little different than the undead Scourge they were going to fight. These had answered the call of Warchief Thrall to set sail to Grommash Hold on the western shore of Northrend. Here they would begin their campaign of retribution against the undead Scourge, who held sway over the Roof of the World.

Among the Orcs were three stalwart warriors, the finest soldiers of the Horde. The tallest of them was a lean hunter, clad in thick animal pelts. Kron'gar had seen many winters, and his beard, braided into one long, single plait that fell down to his belt, was streaked with many gray strands. Of the three of them, he had a vague recollection of the Orcish race as they once had been: the proud and free clans of Draenor, independent of each other, but bound by their traditions of strength and honor. The largest of them was Gol'og, another elderly warrior hailing from Draenor. He was their captain, and held the respect and admiration of all those who knew him: his reputation as a warrior was renown and upon his neck was a string of the tusks of those Orcs who had challenged him in battle and failed. The third was a young Orc with a thick black beard. He had been born here in Azeroth, some time after the outbreak of the Second War, and knew little of the traditions of old. While Kron'gar wielded a spear and Gol'og the great-axe, Gar'mosh bore a short axe that could be wielded with one hand, and a shield to match.

"How much longer till we land?" Gar'mosh asked.

"Very soon," Gol'og answered: his voice was deep and measured, belying the power within the old Orc's body.

"Good!" Gar'mosh grunted. "My axe begs to crush the skulls of undead!"

"You should tell your axe not to beg," Kron'gar interjected. "Begging is for humans."

"And filthy Tauren shame'n!" an undead spoke up.

"You talk much, Talen!" Gol'og grumbled at the undead. "Grown tired of having Malkorok's dick in your mouth?" Gol'og chuckled, and Talen's eyes narrowed: his lower jaw had long since fallen off, and the iron one that had been nailed into his skull was permanently fixed into a mocking grin.

As for Malkorok, he had defected from Rend Blackhand's Blackrock Orcs when the Horde besieged Blackrock Spire several years ago. Upon joining the Horde, he became an outspoken opponent of the leadership of Thrall and his revitalization of the Orcish traditions. Recently, he had volunteered to join the ranks of the Warsong Offensive, the fighting force under the leadership of Overlord Garrosh Hellscream, the lord of Warsong Hold and son of the Warsong Clan's chieftain Grom Hellscream.

Had anyone else responded to Talen's mocking addendum, he would have returned the insult in kind: undead had no honor whatsoever, and their allegiance to the Horde was tenuous at best, made from self-interest. As it was Gol'og, the undead shadow priest cowed in silence. He turned to the object of his mockery and glared at him with his soulless yellow eyes and mocking grin. Gar Earthwalker, a Tauren shaman, was seated in the bowels of the zeppelin, on the starboard side, looking the window. He was Talen's favorite target of mockery: Gar was larger than him, but he was also a pacifist and a loner as well. With no one to defend him, and a penchant for avoiding violence, Gar made an easy target for the faithless Talen, who knew enough about the Tauren to tickle his morbid mind.

The sound of a loud goblin fog-horn was heard, and a distant war-horn roared in reply. A loud crackling sound was heard and a screeching goblin voice was heard in the hull.

"This is your captain speaking!" the goblin said. "We're approaching Warsong Hold. All soldiers prepare for departure."

More than a few of those within the hull roared with delight. Gol'og lifted up his axe and ran his thumb across the blade: five notches within the blade, each one for a particularly powerful enemy he had personally fought in his long life. The first from an ogre he had killed in single combat as a young-blood: the ogre had been twice his size, more than four times his strength, and he had been lain in his mother's tent for seven nights afterward, as the battle had almost killed him. The second notch was from a knight he had fought in a skirmish in the Hillsbrad Foothills during the Second War: he had fought well and valiantly, for a human, and Gol'og sung his praises every time he visited the alehouse (though often changing him to a fierce Wolfrider to appease his Orcish audience). The third was from Hakkar the Blood-god, a fierce being resurrected by the Gurubashi trolls whose Blood Plague had ravaged both the Horde and the Alliance for many months. The fourth he received from a Draenei warrior he had faced in battle several months ago in Alterac: the only person who had survived an encounter with him. The fifth and last notch was from the Betrayer Illidan Stormrage, when he struck the Warglaive of Azzinoth in the battle of the Black Temple.

"Foerend," he said, looking at his axe. "May you taste the blood of the Lich King."

Kron'gar looked out the port-side window and breathed the frigid northern air. There were many beasts in Azeroth that he hadn't hunted yet, whose meat and hide would provide food and clothing for many in Orgrimmar. Furthermore, he had heard tales of direwolves in Northrend, similar to the ones back home on Draenor. Though he too had answered the call of the Horde to fight the Scourge, he wanted to roam this land and test his might against the beasts of Northrend and perhaps bring home a live direwolf. Gar'mosh, however, was eager to fight anything in his path: whether it was the Scourge or the Alliance, the blood-fury was hot in his veins. Battle was all he knew and he threw himself into it with reckless abandon.

The zeppelin came to a halt. On the deck, the goblins rushed to tie off the first zeppelin to the moorings at the Warsong Hold. A ramp was extended so the soldiers could disembark. Then the zeppelin's captain shouted into the amplifier that the zeppelin had landed.

"Move out, sons of the Horde!" Gol'og shouted. "Lok'tar!"

There was a mad rush to disembark from the zeppelin's main hold. Kron'gar, Gol'og and Gar'mosh were among the first to disembark, eager to join the battle they had waited all day and all night to be part of. In the press, the large Gar made his way with the other Tauren: he wasn't very fast and so often fell behind, but he was determined to keep up and not be late. He had seen Garrosh in Nagrand, when the Warchief first met him, and knew how he could be toward those who angered him. But as he was trying to keep up, Talen, who had lingered behind, stole a wooden totem from off his back. He looked around to see who had taken it, but then saw Talen standing next to the window, holding the stolen totem.

"Give it back!" Gar said.

"Why not ask the wind to give it back to you, sham!" Talen grinned, then threw the wooden thing out of the window. Gar tried to grab it, but he was too slow to reach it. Talen cackled, then hurried on out of the zeppelin hold. Gar grumbled low, but said nothing: he would already be late as it is and had to fall back into rank. If he could, he would retrieve his tribal symbol and the conduit for his communion with the spirits after he had joined the Warsong Offensive.

From the zeppelin, the group made their way immediately down a long flight of stairs to the command center in the very heart of the Warsong Hold. One by one they lined up, weapons in their hands, ready for inspection by the Overlord. Gar'mosh, Gol'og and Kron'gar arrived first, saluted, and stood at attention, while Talen quietly slunk into rank with the other Forsaken. All eyes turned as thick, heavy footfalls echoed across the iron floor. A large brown-skinned Orc approached the company: his body was thick and muscled beneath heavy armor and wolf-skin clothing, with a thick neck leading up to a small bald head, whose lower jaw was covered in a black tattoo, as the chieftains of the Warsong Clan often were. He halted before the company and looked them down one by one, then scoffed.

"IS THIS THE BEST OF THE HORDE?!" the Orc roared. "YOU WEAKLINGS ARE THE BEST THAT COWARD THRALL SENT ME?! DOES HE WANT US TO LOSE THIS WAR?!"

"I fought with Gol'og in Silithus," an old Orc with green-skin, spiked iron armor and a wicked-looking axe said, stepping up to the right of the brown-skinned Orc. "There is no finer warrior in the Horde than he."

"SHUT UP, OLD MAN!" the brown Orc roared at the older one. "I LEAD THE OFFENSIVE, SAURFANG, NOT YOU! YOU WOULD DO WELL TO REMEMBER THAT!" The brown Orc then stepped towards the line, starting with the Orcs. He frowned, but made no comments about them. When he came to the Trolls, he grabbed the spear of one Troll and examined it briefly.

"YOU BRING A TWIG TO WAR?!" he roared. With that, he broke the spear over his knees. "GO BACK TO YOUR MUD-HUTS, PUNY TROLL! YOUR KIND DON'T BELONG HERE! THAT COWARD THRALL SHOULD HAVE LEFT YOUR KIND TO BE SLAUGHTERED BY YOUR SEA-WITCH!"

"How dare you insult the Warchief!" a deep, baritone voice spoke. There was a collective gasp at this brazen affront to the authority of the Overlord. The brown Orc turned towards the offending one: it was Gar, who had breathlessly joined the tail end of the company. With slow, ominous footsteps, Hellscream approached the Tauren.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME, COW?" he roared.

"Thrall is our Warchief," Gar said. "He deserves our respect."

Without a second word, Garrosh punched Gar in the stomach, then delivered another blow to his back, sending the Tauren stumbling onto the ground. He delivered a kick to his face, then another to his stomach, kicking him over and over in his wrath.

"I DESERVE YOUR RESPECT!" Garrosh roared. "THAT COWARDLY GREEN-SKINNED BITCH CAN'T HELP YOU NOW, PUNY TAUREN! YOU WILL RESPECT MY AUTHORITY, OR I WILL HANG YOUR HEAD OVER THE HOLD AND CLEAN MY TEETH WITH YOUR HORNS!"

Talen laughed at seeing the object of his mockery publicly humiliated. But as soon as Garrosh turned his yellow eyes at the Forsaken, he fell silent and cowered back in line.

"FILTHY UNDEAD!" he roared. "WATCH YOUR BACK, OR I MIGHT JUST FORGET THAT YOU'RE NOT ONE OF THE SCOURGE! IS THAT CLEAR, SCUM?!"

"Yes, oh great Overlord Hellscream!" Talen exclaimed. "Your wish is my command, oh great one! I've heard the tales of your greatness and your ferocity, but they pale in comparison to the truth of your awe-inspiring greatness..."

"SHUT UP!" Garrosh retorted, and Talen was silent. He then stepped back and addressed them all.

"I CARE NOTHING FOR YOUR PREVIOUS ACCOMPLISHMENTS!" said Garrosh. "I DEMAND YOUR RESPECT AND OBEDIENCE TO ME AND ME ALONE! YOU WILL KILL WHEN I TELL YOU TO KILL, YOU WILL DIE WHEN I TELL YOU TO DIE, AND YOU WILL BRING ME HONOR WITH YOUR DEATHS! IS THAT CLEAR?!"

"Yes, sir!" the soldiers shouted as one.

"WE ARE HERE TO KILL THE UNDEAD!" Garrosh continued. "BUT THE ALLIANCE IS HERE AS WELL: THEY DESERVE TO DIE AS WELL! NOW GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

Some of them saluted and shouted "Lok'tar!", while others waited as their captains told them which way to go for their barracks. Gar was the last one up, as he was still sore from being assaulted. But as he was getting up, a large weight fell upon his back and he fell to the ground again.

"Just where you belong, stupid sham!" Talen mocked. "On the floor, beneath the feet of your betters."

"Get off me!" grumbled Gar.

"'Get off me!'" mocked Talen. "Or what? Are you gonna cry to your precious Thrall? Will the elements hear your tears, sham?"

"Don't call me sham!" Gar grumbled.

"'Don't call me sham!'" Talen mocked. "You're a fucking idiot for being offended over a joke, you know that?"

"Eight years of this shit!" Gar said. "Can't you knock it off?"

"'Can't you knock it off?'" Talen retorted. "You're such a fucking crybaby. Your kind don't belong in the Horde, stupid sham. Why not go over and join the Alliance, if they'll have you? They might roast you and serve you as steak instead, being a big dumb cow!"

"WHAT IS GOING ON?" Garrosh roared. Talen leaped off Gar's body and shook his head furiously. Gar pushed himself up to his feet.

"He pinned me to the floor," the Tauren said.

"Oh, really, overlord?" Talen asked. "How could I, a thin, spindly Forsaken, pin that giant cow to the floor? He's just a big bitch who can't defend himself."

Garrosh stepped on Gar's face. "WHY DID YOU COME HERE, YOU USELESS PIECE OF COW-SHIT?! GO BACK TO YOUR TENTS! THERE'S NO PLACE FOR WEAKNESS IN MY HORDE!" He then kicked him in the stomach again. "YOU HAVE CLEANING DUTY IN THE STABLES! NOW GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!" Garrosh walked away without looking back, while Talen loomed in Gar's face.

"Gar the shit-shoveling sham!" he mocked. "Has a nice ring to it, don't you think? Oh, don't look so sad. I'm sure your kind must be well-acquainted to shit, being cows and all." He laughed and went on his way.

Gar had faced this kind of treatment from the members of the Horde for eight years. First it was the Orcs of Thrall's Horde, many of whom, like Gar'mosh, were born on Azeroth during the time of the old Horde and knew only violence and bloodshed as their way of life. To them, the 'old ways' that Thrall was bringing back in his policies were a source of weakness that dishonored what the Horde was: some even viewed Thrall as being "too human" because of his focus on honor. Then, after the Horde expanded with the addition of the Forsaken and the Blood Elves, the tormenting continued. Gar was large and slow, and therefore an easy target of ridicule, especially among the Forsaken and Blood Elves: the Blood Elves were haughty, aloof, and capricious by nature, and many of the Forsaken had once been humans.

Often times he wondered if the Horde as it was now had changed from the Horde as Cairne Bloodhoof had encountered them eight years ago: the one that fought with valor as well as savagery.

The Orcish company was a loud and raucous bunch. Already Gar'mosh was announcing to all those around that he would give money to whoever beat him in an arm wrestle. Kron'gar laughed as he saw several challengers roar their taking of the bet.

"My money's on Trelka," Kron'gar said to Gol'og, pointing to a mohawk-wearing woman with a Gnome's leg-bone for an earring.

"He's young and full of the bloodlust," Gol'og said. "Make sure he doesn't get himself into trouble. She's beaten Dwarves tougher than him."

"Come now, Gol," Kron'gar returned. "How many times have you fought with the best of them from both continents, and back home at World's End?"

"That's the point," Gol'og stated.

"Huh?"

"He reminds me of myself when I was his age," Gol'og clarified. "When the Horde was first formed. Spirits guide him, and keep him from following my path."

"Your path was that of glory and battle," Kron'gar returned. "Are you afraid that he'll outmatch your legend?"

Gol'og laughed. "He'd have to live as many years as I have and fought for most of them to come close to my legend!" He sighed. "No, but there is more..." At that point, the old Orc, whom Garrosh had called Saurfang, entered the Orcish barracks. All those who saw him stood at attention immediately.

"At ease, brothers," he said. "I hope you weren't put off by Hellscream's introduction. He is young and hungry for battle. But we have a job to do here, and you answered the call. We have undead in the east, Alliance and kvaldir in the south, and blue dragons in the west. Needless to say, this will be an uphill battle all the way. Our scouts report that the undead are massing another attack on this fortress across the Plains of Nasam: this company has five minutes to get geared and ready for battle on the plains. Lok'tar ogar!"

"Lok'tar ogar!" they roared in reply. The mad rush to prepare for battle overwhelmed the company almost immediately. Kron'gar and Gol'og took up their weapons and made their way up from the barracks.

"So much for a breather before battle," Kron'gar said. Gol'og grunted his approval.

Their company's banner was located on the northern edge of the Plains of Nasam, just outside the quarry where the Warsong Hold had been built. Before them they could see the lines of the undead waiting for them: thousands of shambling monstrosities. The Orcish company, and many others, readied themselves for the inevitable battle to come: grunts, like Gar'mosh, flexed their fingers upon the shafts of their axes. Trolls with spears behind them invoked the Loa spirits, or snacked on hallucinogenic mushrooms, working themselves up for a berserker fury. Wolfriders with two-handed great-swords petted the thick hides of their wolf mounts. Orcish shaman prayed to the spirits of the wind to grant them strength; witch-doctors of the Darkspear Tribe muttered ancient chants to the Loa, channeling the power of the spirits; Tauren spirit-walkers cast sacred ashes upon the cold wind, invoking the protection of the Earth-mother. Orcish drummers atop their massive kodos struck the skins, pounding out the beat of the march of war. Mad trolls with fiery concoctions whispered to the blind bat-mounts they had brought with them from the Undercity, while the noble Wyvern riders, including Kron'gar, secured their ammunition of spears and lances upon the harnesses of their flying beasts. Goblin-made demolishers loaded incendiary rounds ready for firing. Mighty Tauren warriors asked the guarding of their ancestors, then heaved their war totems over their shoulders; massive, dense weapons the size of tree trunks.

There were few Forsaken warriors among them, for their main army was attacking from the east, in the Howling Fjord. Among the Blood Elves who were with them, footmen in gold-and-crimson armor readied themselves to repay the Undead Scourge for the destruction of Quel'thalas. Keen-eyed Elven archers fitted arrows into the strings of their bows, standing ready to draw and fire within an instant. Blood Elven priests and sorceresses gripped the fel-crystals they used to compose their thirst for magic, readying themselves for battle. Alongside the Wyvern and bat-riders, Blood Elves with lances rode colorful dragonhawks: all three kinds would be needed for the battle ahead, as the undead had gargoyles and flying Nerubians in their ranks, as well as reanimated frost wyrms.

"Soldiers of the Horde!" Gol'og roared. "Some of you still remember fighting these undead on the slopes of Mount Hyjal eight years ago. Today we face them yet again. Remember the ones who fell to these monsters: your brothers, your sons, your daughters, your sisters. Honor demands their deaths be avenged!"

The warriors of the Horde roared triumphantly in agreement with the captain's words.

"Death is not an option for you, my brothers," Gol'og said. "For if you die, they will bring you back as one of their own and, by the spirits, I will cut you down myself! There is no other outcome for this battle, but victory for us! Lok'tar!"

"LOK'TAR!" shouted the warriors of the Horde.

With that, the forces of the Horde charged out and fell upon the undead. Gar'mosh was among the first into the fray, shield in one hand and axe in the other. His shield coupled with his momentum and size bore down on the first ghoul he overtook: the shambling creature was trampled by the iron-shod Orc. The shield went up to turn aside the blow of a skeletal warrior's sword, then the axe came down and hacked off the sword-bearing arm. A Nerubian crypt fiend fired a sticky web at Gar'mosh, who, in the fullness of his battle fury, thrashed at it with his axe, tearing it apart. The large thing charged at him on six of its eight legs, black eyes staring hungrily at him. Then, from above, a battle-cry was heard and Kron'gar heaved a spear from the back of his Wyvern: it lanced the crypt fiend through the narrow thorax, pinning it to the ground. Gar'mosh drove his axe-head into the bug's head, right between the cluster of its many eyes.

Gol'og was a one-man army at the front of his company. With one great swipe, he tore off the legs of a crypt fiend, sending it falling helplessly to the ground. A ghoul came up from the right, and Gol'og thrust the spiked pommel of Foerend into the ghoul's head, piercing through the skull and slicing into what was left of its brain. From amid the ranks of the undead appeared a massive crypt lord, the beetles who were once the lords of the Nerubians; powerful flesh-eaters whose carapace was as hard as any armor. Gol'og struck his chest and roared defiantly at the crypt lord, then charged head-long at the creature, axe in hand.

Above the battle, Kron'gar heaved another lance at a crypt fiend he got into his sights. These were the main danger for their air-force, since their webs could bring down even a Wyvern. A bat-rider threw a potion full of some volatile liquid down on a host of ghouls, setting them on fire. They ran like mad, spreading chaos in the lines of the undead. Kron'gar scanned the battlefield, looking for another target. Experienced hunter that he was, he knew that those in the rear, dressed in robes rather than armor, were always the supporters of the company: taking them down would be essential to success.

The battle raged on, with both sides trading loses. More than six dozen undead fell, with three warriors of the Horde falling. Each of them came back as a mindless zombie, controlled by the cultists in black robes at the back of the undead Scourge: necromancers of the Cult of the Damned. Those who came back, no matter who they were, were put down without hesitation and without mercy. Gar'mosh was standing atop a hill of broken ghoul remains, shouting defiantly at the hordes of the undead. Suddenly an iron hook caught on his armor and he found himself pulled violently through the air and crashing at the feet of a titanic monstrosity of rotting flesh, haphazardly sewn together into a hulking abomination.

"Fresh meat!" roared the abomination.

Gar'mosh roared back at the creature, striking the chain upon which the hook stuck to his shoulder-pads was fastened. With his other hand he held up his shield, fending off the blows from one of the abomination's three arms: it bore a cudgel, some crude weapon scavenged and thrown into the mindless creature's hands when it was told to kill for the Lich King. The heavy, concussive blows shook Gar'mosh, for the abomination struck as hard as any ogre. He needed to be free of this chain. Again and again he struck at the chain, until at last the links shattered and Gar'mosh was free. He swung his axe at a series of stitches in the beast's massive belly, ripping them and sending a putrid mass of offal, green fluids, and intestines spewing onto the ground. Despite its wound, the abomination still swung at the Orc warrior, desperately trying to take him down with it. Another blow from the cudgel was turned by the shield and Gar'mosh severed the third arm that protruded from the left armpit.

The crypt lord swung its forward pincer at Gol'og, who fended off the blow with the shaft of Foerend: bound in thick kodo and clefthoof hides, it served as a light shield in times of need. But the crypt lord had two such pincers at the front of its body, and the other one slid underneath and behind the axe's shaft. Gol'og, mighty Orc he was, was outmatched for strength by the massive Nerubian, who wrenched Foerend from his hands and threw it to the ground. But Gol'og was not beaten yet: even without his great-axe, he was still a formidable warrior. Using the body of a fallen crypt fiend, he leaped on top of the crypt lord, onto its mighty carapace. The beetle's pincers couldn't reach him, nor could its massive horn, which thrust back in vain to pin the pestilent Orc that dared defy him. Gol'og dug his fingers deep between the edges of a piece of Nerubian chitin, then pulled with all of his might. There was a loud crack, and a sickening roar of pain from the giant beetle as a sizable chunk of chitin was torn off its body, exposing its soft insides. Gol'og drove the hardened chunk deep into the exposed flesh, then leaped off the crypt lord as it flailed and thrashed about. From the air came another lance from Kron'gar that struck the exposed portion. But this lance was poisoned with Wyvern venom, known to cause lethargy and sluggish movement in those it infected. The Nerubian beetle could not fight or move as swiftly as before. Gol'og saw his opportunity, and, picking up Foerend, he moved in for the kill. A ghoul that came up on the left was pushed aside by a quick shove from the shoulder: nothing would stop the old Orc. In mid sprint, Gol'og turned the great-axe around, using the pommel as a lance, and drove the spiked end through the small face of the crypt lord.

The battle was over in thirty minutes time: the Horde had won. Fifteen had fallen of their number, and all of the undead were wiped out. The bodies were placed into two piles for burning, with the warriors of the Horde being burned separately from the undead. The cold, northern winds were harsh and battled their attempts to light fires. Eventually, mages skilled in pyromancy cast spells to ignite the pyres. The three Orcs stood somber before the burning piles. They were all wearied and covered in the blood of their enemies, but Kron'gar and Gar'mosh were still in high spirits.

"There will be quite a song back at the hold," said Gar'mosh.

"They went to their ancestors with pride," Kron'gar added. "They will be honored as such."

"How many did you kill?" Gar'mosh asked.

"Enough," Kron'gar stated.

"Bah, you don't want to tell, do you?" asked Gar'mosh. "Afraid that us grunts outdid you wind-riders, eh?" Kron'gar said nothing. "Twenty. Even got two of those abominations. A good morning's workout for a soldier, eh? But there's plenty of undead here in Northrend, so I hear. Maybe if I'm injured, you'll be able to catch up with me." He laughed, and then turned and made his way back to the hold. Kron'gar chuckled, then turned to Gol'og, who had been silent throughout the ordeal.

"What is it?" he asked.

"This tundra," Gol'og said. "It reminds me of Draenor. Do you remember Frostfire Ridge, where the Frostwolf Clan used to hunt?"

"Yes," Kron'gar nodded. "The boar there were excellent game."

"Indeed," Gol'og grimly smiled.

"The cold wind gladdens my heart," Kron'gar said. "Were it not for the undead here, I could be at great ease here in Northrend." He turned back to Gol'og. "You seem troubled."

"These young-bloods," Gol'og grumbled. "They have no respect for tradition or honor. They are like Overlord Hellscream: hungry for battle and blind to all else."

"Is that not good?" Kron'gar asked.

"Without honor to guide us," Gol'og replied. "We are no different now than we were under Gul'dan." He sighed. "Sometimes I wonder how deep the corruption of Gul'dan and his warlocks runs within our race. More than our green skin, these young-bloods, born during the old Horde, are likely to drive us back into the savagery and bloodlust of that time."

"You're getting soft in your old age," Kron'gar stated.

"You're not much younger than I!" Gol'og returned. "But age has nothing to do with it."

"Those young-bloods would accuse you of acting 'human,'" Kron'gar said.

"And in that, they're wrong," Gol'og stated firmly. "We were not like the humans in the old ways, before Gul'dan and the warlocks. Respecting honor won't make us like the humans."

"Mmm," grumbled Kron'gar. "This talk bores me. I'm returning to the hold. Are you coming, or do you have more thinking to do?"

Gol'og chuckled. "I'm coming. We have to report our success."

The two old warriors left the Plains of Nasam and began the long hike back to Warsong Hold. It had been a good day for fighting. The Horde was victorious.


End file.
